


A Cold for Chanukah—Or Marvin is the Worst Patient Ever

by SingARoundelay



Category: Falsettos - Lapine/Finn
Genre: Chrismukkah, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Marvin is not fucking sick okay, Sick Character, marvin is the worst patient ever, tight knit family, whizzer has the patience of a saint, whizzer's sass should have its own tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:53:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21844723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SingARoundelay/pseuds/SingARoundelay
Summary: Marvin wakes up sick one morning (and just before the holidays, how the hell is that fair?) and refuses to let Whizzer take care of him because he doesn't need a damn nursemaid. Even if he's dying of the plague.Featuring Whizzer’s epic sass, stealth decorating for Chrismukkah, and the worst patient ever.
Relationships: Whizzer Brown/Marvin
Comments: 7
Kudos: 96
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	A Cold for Chanukah—Or Marvin is the Worst Patient Ever

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cookiegirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cookiegirl/gifts).



> To my Yuletide recipient: I hope this fits the bill for some good old-fashioned hurt/comfort. :^)

**_December 20th—_ **

_Thud. Thud-thud-dud-dud._

_C R A S H._

“What the actual fuck?”

“That was my _foot_ , Whizzer!”

“Well, this was my leather jacket that now has _paint_ on it!”

“Yeah, but that was my _foot_ and—wait a sec, aren’t you _not_ supposed to swear in front of children?”

“Give me a fucking break, you’ve heard worse from your father.”

“Point, but you broke my foot. And you said it again. Dad’s gonna be piiiiissed at you when he finds out.”

“He’s not going to find out and if he does, it was justified. You ruined my jacket. I win.”

“How the hell is this a competition? My _foot_!”

“ _My jacket._ ”

Marvin stands at the door, hand hovering above the doorknob as he listens to the argument going on inside his apartment. On one hand, he’s glad to see Whizzer and Jason getting along at last—on the other… he wants to know exactly what happened. Paint + Whizzer’s expensive clothing is _never_ a good combination.

And, for the record, what exactly needed _painting_?

With a long-suffering sigh, Marvin slips his key into the lock and steps inside. He’s expecting to see the remnants of World War Three playing out in the living room but instead, it’s all pristine. He drops his briefcase beside the door, keys go in the bowl, and he drapes his coat across the couch as he passes by it.

“Uh—I’m home?” he calls out, peeking his head into the kitchen. He frowns when he finds that empty as well.

“Shit!”

“Fuck!”

The two expletives are said simultaneously and he’s not sure who said what. It also doesn’t matter either.

“Language!” Marvin chides, glancing over at the already opened bottle of wine on the counter—left over from last night’s dinner—and debates taking a swig right from the bottle. It’s 5 PM somewhere, right? Actually, who cares? He’s a damn adult, he’ll drink when he wants to.

“You told me he wasn’t getting home until late!”

“Well, Dad’s a work-a-holic. This is the first time he’s been home before 8 o’clock on a Friday in _aaaages_.”

Okay, he can really do without the sass. He’s been _much_ better this past year about getting home at a reasonable hour, especially whenever they have Jason for the weekend. And after his and Whizzer’s whole ‘let us talk about everything that ruined our first relationship and fix it this time around’, unless he’s been stuck at court, he’s made an effort to be home at a reasonable hour.

So the judgment and Whizzer’s lack of sticking up for him rankles. It’s the icing on an already shit day.

He’s about to pick up the bottle when Whizzer emerges from the bedroom, pulling the door shut behind himself. Marvin cocks an eyebrow at his lover.

“Dare I ask?”

“ _NO!_ ” Whizzer seemingly realizes that came out stronger than he meant and he coughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean. No.” Attempted half-smile. “Everything is fine. Just peachy. Perfect.”

“You _broke my toe_!” Jason shouts from behind the bedroom door.

“It’s merely a flesh wound,” Whizzer shouts back. “You’ll live.”

Ah, fuck it. Marvin picks up the bottle and takes a long swig. It’s uncouth, and he can see the wheels in Whizzer’s head attempting to come up with some snappy retort, but Marvin holds a hand up before he can speak.

“Don’t,” Marvin says after swallowing. “I had a shit day and I come home to my boyfriend expanding my son’s vocabulary. Not to mention quoting Monty Python at him, and you _know_ this is a Python-free zone. I can handle one of those things, but not all three at once.”

Whizzer’s expression softens as he pulls down two wine glasses. “At least don’t drink out of the bottle, you heathen! It’s a Bordeaux, not a juice box.” He leans in and presses a soft kiss to Marvin’s lips. “Everything okay, baby?”

He signs in response. “It will be. Clients are being a pain in the ass because it’s almost Christmas, but no one gives a damn that Chanukah is the same goddamned time, so hey as long as _their_ holiday is over and done with, they expect the rest of us to be ready to jump back to work on the 26th.”

Whizzer arches an eyebrow. “This is the part where I say ‘there, there, people are assholes’ and don’t point out the fact that you’re hardly one for following the rules Mr. ‘I totally ate a bacon cheeseburger yesterday and forgot to get the menorah out until my half-Jewish boyfriend reminded me that the holidays are a thing’, right?”

The amount of wine Marvin pours into the glass should be answer enough for Whizzer.

After a few healthy sips from his glass, Marvin can feel the warmth from the wine spreading through his body. He’s relaxing bit by bit—though that might also be due to Whizzer holding him close and peppering the top of his head with kisses. Yeah, they’ve also become that sickeningly sweet couple in the months since they’ve gotten back together. 

Ten months. This time they both agree it’s been ten months—and the honeymoon phase hasn’t worn off yet. Maybe it won’t. 

Surprisingly, Marvin is wholly okay with that. He’s softer and kinder this time around—and so is Whizzer.

“So are you ever going to tell me what the hell was going on in the other room when I got home?” Marvin asks taking a smaller sip from his glass this time as he tucks himself close against Whizzer.

“Doesn’t matter and no, I’m not.”

Marvin groans. “What will I have to clean up later?”

“We both know you have never touched a cleaning implement in your entire life,” Whizzer replies. “So don’t act like you’re the aggrieved housewife in this relationship.” He grins. “That’s why we have a kid. _He_ can clean up his own mess.”

“With a broken foot.”

“He’s exaggerating. The drama queen.”

“Mmmm. And he learned from the biggest queen around.”

The grin Whizzer flashes Marvin is a thousand-watt brilliant—and Marvin can’t help but lean in and steal a kiss that fast turns into several more. Hell, he’s soon pressed up against the counter, Whizzer’s knee between his own thighs as they make out like two teenagers on a first date.

“ _Ew._ Can you two please just… _not_.”

And the two jump away from each other like they were just caught by their parents. Whizzer grins at Jason while Marvin’s face turns a deep shade of red to rival the Bordeaux he drank. 

“Sorry, kiddo,” Marvin says, untangling himself from Whizzer and reaching out to ruffle Jason’s curls. “But isn’t the kissing better than your mom and me fighting all the time?”

Jason pauses and scratches his chin. “I used to think it was. Now? I’m not so sure…”

“The thanks I get for working on a school project for you. And I don’t see your school reimbursing me for the cost of a new jacket either,” Whizzer huffs.

“Whizzer. My school can barely afford lightbulbs and pencils. I think some ugly leather jacket is a bit out of their price range.”

Whizzer has the gall to look scandalized. “Excuse _me_ but there isn’t a single thing Gucci has ever produced that could be called _ugly_.”

“Fugly, then. Or… Gugly.” Jason pauses, chewing on his lower lip like he always does when he’s thinking hard. “Guccly? Naw, gugly. It’s gugly, Whizzer.”

“You. Take. That. Back.”

Marvin glances back at the now-empty wine bottle and sighs. He, apparently, shouldn’t have wasted the booze earlier. Or, at the very least, rationed it out a bit better.

“As much as I’d love to watch my son and my partner kill each other right before Chanukah so I can eat all of your gelt and not have to give you any — time for a truce. Out to dinner.”

* * *

_Jostle. Jostle. Nudge. Nudge._

“Is it an earthquake?” Marvin somehow manages to croak out from his sleep-addled state. “What’s wrong?”

“Don’t be silly, this is lower Manhattan and we live in a brownstone. These things are held together with enough cockroach shit to survive the apocalypse.”

He’s prodded again and Marvin half-heartedly bats him away. If Whizzer wanted morning sex that badly, there were nicer ways of asking. And usually Whizzer doesn’t ask, just wakes him by sucking—

_S H O V E._

That was uncalled for. Marvin readjusts himself in the bed before he winds up sprawled on the floor thanks to his over-exuberant boyfriend pushing him out of bed.

“Marvin are you dead? Wakey-wakey.”

“I already spoke to you,” he rasps. “Clearly I’m not dead. Now stop pushing and prodding and let me sleep.” Marvin clears his throat. Odd, his throat feels weird. Must be exhaustion from the long week, nothing more. “If you’re horny, you have a hand now leave me alone. It’s Saturday and I want to sleep in for a change. Wake me at eight-thirty and maybe we can fool around if Jason is still asleep and you lock the door before he gets an education in gay sex ed. Again. Now leave me alone.”

As if to punctuate his statement, Marvin rolls over, putting his back to Whizzer and tries to go back to sleep. Even if his head feels like it’s been filled with cotton and the moment he shifts position he can feel mucus shifting from one side to the other, rolling down his throat and nearly gagging him.

Well that’s not at all sexy. That’s gross as hell and why does it feel like someone’s bashed his sinuses with a rock?

No.

Oh no.

Impossible.

“Marvin, it’s almost eleven. You’ve never slept in past eight in the entire time I’ve known you. Not even when we had that marathon session two weeks ago and you said you could sleep for a week—”

Whatever else Whizzer was going to say is interrupted by a spectacular coughing fit. By the time Marvin gets his hacking under control he has tears pricking at his eyes and he’s spitting something greenish and disgusting into a tissue. 

Now that he’s sitting up, Marvin feels like fucking death warmed over.

_Fuck._

Whizzer gasps in an almost comical fashion—or, at least, Marvin would have found it hilarious if he didn’t feel like fucking death warmed over—slapping a hand over his mouth.

“Oh my _God_ ,” Whizzer gasps, playfully slapping a hand over his mouth. Oh yes, this is so fucking funny. Keep laughing, asshole. “The rumors are true. You’re human and actually can get _sick._ ”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not si—”

The second coughing fit in as many minutes hits Marvin and his face is almost purple by the time he manages to get air in. Whizzer hands him a glass of water he seemingly conjured from nowhere.

“The fact that your lungs are trying to make their exodus from your body suggests otherwise,” Whizzer says, hopping up from the bed. Probably trying to get as far away from Marvin as humanly possible before the germs can reach him.

Smart man. 

“I don’t have time to be sick,” Marvin replies, trying to toss back the covers and get out of bed. He’s stopped by Whizzer who bodily shoves him back into place. Marvin glares up at Whizzer. “Get off me.”

“That’s not what you said last night.”

Marvin rolls his eyes and grits his teeth in a vain attempt to stop coughing fit number three. Or was it four? Doesn’t matter because he’s not. Fucking. Sick. 

“Grow up.”

“Never. You love my filthy mind.”

“How is it you’re not hacking up a lung and looking like the poster child for Tuberculosis?” Marvin asks, changing the subject after he’s regained the ability to speak and/or breathe once more. He’s lost track of the number of times he’s almost hacked up a lung at this point. He’s not going to count because counting means admitting he’s sick. “You spend most of your time with your tongue down my throat. I’d figure you’d be patient zero. Or at least feeling as miserable as me.”

Whizzer beams down at Marvin. “I’ll have you know I have a top-notch immune system,” he replies. “Gave the creator one hell of a blow job to make sure of it.” Marvin rolls his eyes but doesn’t dare respond for fear of setting off yet another coughing fit. The less cool apartment air on his throat the better. “Good, you’re learning to keep your mouth shut,” Whizzer says. “So now you can’t bitch about staying in this bed while Nurse Whizzer takes care of you.”

“Nurse Whizzer?” Marvin lifts an eyebrow at Whizzer. “You’re just looking for an excuse to wear those heels and a skirt, aren’t you?”

“You’re just jealous your legs don’t look half as good as mine in stilettos.”

“I hope you fall on your ass trying to bring me breakfast in bed.”

This time the coughing fit was absolutely worth it.

* * *

It’s sometime later, Marvin isn’t sure how many hours—or maybe days at this point—all he knows is he feels like he’s been run over by a garbage truck, thrown down a set of subway stairs at rush hour, and left to rot next to Pizza Rat, Taco Squirrel, and whatever other NYC vermin has taken a shining to some larger-than-they-are piece of food.

He rolls over, groaning, and buries his head in a pillow before he sets off another coughing fit. His ribs are starting to hurt and, really, why not just jump out the window and be done with it? Surely death would be so much better than dealing with the common cold.

Common cold. How… _ordinary_.

Not to mention a cold when he has a few days off from the law firm. Really, this is so far from fair it isn’t funny. It’s the holidays, Whizzer had made Marvin agree to some Christmas decorations since they had Jason for the week—Trina and Mendel wanted to finally have the honeymoon they’d put off for two years—and Marvin had to make sure that Whizzer didn’t go fucking overboard with the tinsel and little tiny lights.

He was absolutely not going to see a nice chunk of his income go to decorations that would spend 355 days in a box in their closet.

But mostly this was one of the few times he didn’t have to worry about checking emails or getting texts from clients. No, he was on _vacation_ and now he was going to spend it with a sore throat, stuffed head, and the inability to speak without coughing.

If Marvin needed proof God didn’t exist, here it was plain and simple: what sort of a God allows His people to get sick over not one but _two_ of His holidays?

Sometime between when Whizzer first woke him and now his lover brought in breakfast. Soft, easy to swallow food by the look of it. Toast and orange juice and oatmeal. Ugh, he’s absolutely not going to eat food prepped especially for him. He’s not giving Whizzer the satisfaction of taking care of him like he’s some invalid who can’t fend for himself.

He’s going to make his own fucking breakfast.

Marvin goes to sit up in bed when a wave of dizziness passes over him. He shoots out a hand, bracing his arm against the headboard while he waits for the room to stop spinning. Or maybe he needs to stop moving. Maybe it’s a little of Column A and a lot of Column B.

With a groan—and a cough—Marvin snatches a piece of toast from the tray and pushes the rest of the food aside. If Whizzer wanted him to eat breakfast he’s going to have to deal with the fucking crumbs everywhere. 

He doesn’t even shout out a thank you but instead curls back up in the comfort of his bed, falling asleep with a half-eaten piece of toast in his hand.

**_December 22nd —_ **

“Marvin?”

“Go away, I’m dying,” Marvin rasps, face buried in a pillow. He’s absolutely not going to admit the tissue sprinkled with some weird Olbas oil is actually helping him breathe. Because that would mean admitting Whizzer is taking care of him.

Nope. Not happening.

“Baby, we’re about to light the candles. The sun set a while ago but Jason wanted to wait for you.”

“Dying, remember?” A cough punctuates the question.

He hears Whizzer sigh then the door clicks shut. Marvin rolls over once more, moving his nose closer to the magical tissue, glad he can breathe again—so long as he doesn’t move too far away from it.

Marvin soon falls asleep in the dark room, unaware of the Chanukah celebration going on in the other room. It’s sad that he’s missing the first night as a newly blended family—he doesn’t get to see Jason teaching Whizzer his favorite prayer or introduce him to their family traditions. 

At least he gets to miss cut knuckles from grating so many potatoes for latkes.

When he wakes, somewhere past midnight, there’s a cold plate of leftovers sitting beside the bed. Marvin gives it a cursory look… then turns away.

He must be dying—he won’t even eat a latke.

**December 24th —**

At some point yesterday, call it a Chanukah miracle, but his status as Patient Zero of the Chrismukkah Plague ™ was upgraded to “generally feeling like shit, probably still contagious but at least I can lay pathetically on the couch”. As far as Marvin is concerned, it’s an improvement—even if it means that Whizzer is able to wait on him hand and foot.

One would think Marvin would love the attention. That one would be dead wrong.

Yes, attention is nice if he can bask in it and make everyone aware he’s being waited. He wants to be lucid enough to enjoy the palm fronds and being fed grapes—not… snore on the couch because he can’t breathe and wake up covered with a blanket that some thoughtful boyfriend had tucked around his shoulders.

“Shh. You’ll wake him.”

“He’s dead to the world, Jason,” comes Whizzer’s strained-sounding voice. “If he didn’t hear me whack into the doorframe not once but twice, swear, drop the tree on my foot, swear some more, throw the tree stand across the room when it refused to bend to my will, and then cheer when we got it to stand upright without holding onto it — I don’t think he’ll hear me open a bottle of wine to start drunk decorating said tree.”

Jason snorts. “Whizzer. You know Marvin has a second sense for all things alcohol-related. It’s like you and the words ‘there’s a sale at Bloomingdales.’”

Marvin bites back a chuckle for fear of setting off a coughing fit. Apparently his son has Whizzer’s number pegged and he couldn’t be more proud. Also he’s supposed to be dead to the world according to one boyfriend who’s in so much trouble for bringing a tree into this household.

“Excuse me, I am a gay who loves a sale. There’s no crime in getting two pairs of shoes for, well. Less than the price of two pairs of shoes.”

Marvin has made it a point to never look at Whizzer’s credit card statements for fear of the resulting hernia/heart attack/stroke. Thank god they both have well-paying jobs or Whizzer would never be able to fund his shopping addiction.

“Whatever. Just don’t wake him or he’ll be pissed.”

“I’ll handle him. I have ways of making him forgive me for _anything_ ,” Whizzer says amidst Jason’s immediate _ewwwww gross really don’t need to know._

He cracks one eye open and, three feet away from him is one… well. It’s a tree in name only. Standing crookedly and featuring a fair number of bare spots, Marvin’s sure this was the only thing left to buy a few days before Christmas.

“What is that?” He croaks out, trying to pull himself into a sitting position.

Whizzer abandons whatever he was doing and comes to help, putting one hand behind Marvin’s back to help him sit up. He bends down, pressing his forehead to Marvin’s—a completely non-medical and non-scientific way of telling someone’s temperature. Marvin pushes him away, scowling.

“Your fever might have finally broken.”

“I’m so glad you can divine that through pressing of skin to skin. Get a thermometer.”

Whizzer makes a clucking sound. “Babe, just because you miss having something up—”

“OH GOD WHIZZER SHUT UP!” Marvin and Jason shout in unison.

“Doesn’t mean I’m shoving a thermometer up your ass.”

“Under my tongue,” Marvin replies. “Like a normal person.”

“If it’s your tongue, I could take it recreationally…”

Jason looks horrified and turns back to the tree. 

“See what you did?” Marvin says, gesturing to his son.

“Give him a few years. He’ll appreciate my humor more.”

“That’s if his mother or I ever allow him to have a romantic partner before the age of thirty.”

“And that’s when he’ll be glad I’m around to be his wing man.”

Marvin pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. He feels a headache coming on and he isn’t sure if it’s from the sinus infection he’s battling or the boyfriend sitting beside him. Somehow he thinks it’s more to do with Whizzer than the illness. For once.

Jason is hanging ornaments on the tree and Marvin’s amused to see there’s a combination of gaudy Christmas, blue and white clearly Jewish-related, and a selection of rainbow pride ones spilling out of an open bag. He glances over at Whizzer who shrugs.

“I always loved Christmas trees in the house,” Whizzer says. “My mom was Catholic and while we weren’t much for religion in the house, she loved Christmas. She’d go all out every year and it’s the one thing I miss the most about her.” Marvin doesn’t say anything so Whizzer presses on, starting to ramble now. “I mean, I know you’re not one for Christmas. You wouldn’t be, I know. But I just thought. Well. If we’re giving this a real go this time around, maybe we should have some of my traditions in. You said you wanted to listen to my wants more and I should have asked you, but you were asleep and feeling like garbage…”

“So you thought you’d sneak one in?”

Whizzer bites his lip rather than answering.

Marvin sighs. 

“I’m sorry,” Whizzer says, hanging his head. “We’ll take it down. It’s not much of a tree but beggars can’t be choosers on Christmas Eve. We had to walk twelve blocks with that thing to find a bodega that still had one left.”

“No, you’re right.”

Whizzer blinks at Marvin. “Excuse me, say that one more time.”

“I will not. You heard me the first time.” Marvin tries to crack a smile. “And maybe next year I’ll actually be able to help you decorate.”

**December 25th—**

After four hellish days of being the worst patient on the face of the earth, Marvin has at last re-joined the land of the living. The first time he’s able to take in a deep breath without expelling his lungs feels like a joyous occasion. Able to walk to the bathroom to take a piss without being out of breath and needing a nap? It’s such a huge accomplishment that he’s unsure why he hasn’t received a Nobel Prize for the very act.

Marvin rolls over in bed, tucking his head under Whizzer’s chin.

“I have to say, in spite of a few complaints here and there—”

“You mean your near-constant bitching?” Whizzer interrupts.

“—you aren’t too bad as a nurse,” Marvin finishes, ignoring Whizzer’s interjection. “Not saying I want to feel like death any time soon but, well, maybe I won’t be such a bad patient next time.” He offers a smile. “I have to admit, I enjoyed the stilettos. How the hell you can walk in them and carry a tray I’ll never know.”

“Practice. Lots of practice.”

Marvin really won’t ask about that.

“And,” Whizzer continues, “You’ll never remember to be a good patient,” Whizzer says. “But that’s okay. I have a long memory. The next time I’m sick and you have to pay nurse-maid?I’m going to make your life _hell_. You’ve been warned.” He gives Marvin a wicked grin. “Starting with making you wear those heels too.”

Instead of replying or starting up an argument—because there is no way he’ll _ever_ put on a pair of heels—Marvin presses a few soft kisses to his lover’s neck. See, look, Marvin’s learning! Not everything has to be a fight between them and sometimes he can let Whizzer win without it being the end of the fucking world. As if realizing Marvin’s had some grand revelation, Whizzer threads his fingers through Marvin’s hair. 

“I’m glad you’re feeling better,” Whizzer says, tilting Marvin’s face up to kiss his forehead. 

“So am I,” Marvin replies. He reaches for Whizzer’s free hand, threading their fingers together. “I’m glad I had someone to take care of me. I’m… sorry if I was an asshole.”

Look, an apology. One that was unprompted! Don’t worry, Whizzer, Marvin is just as stunned at this revelation.

Whizzer squeezes their fingers. “I love you, baby.”

“I love you, too.”

They’re quiet for a long moment, listening to the sounds of the city outside their window and each other’s breathing in the bedroom. Marvin occasionally wheezes a bit, the sign that he’s not completely healthy but at least he’s feeling human again. That is worth its weight in gold.

Marvin loses track of time, lost in his thoughts about how different his relationship is with Whizzer this time around. Fully cognizant that Old-Whizzer never would have stuck around like this, wouldn’t have entertained Jason and decorated for the dual-religious holidays—wouldn’t have held his head back from the toilet when he vomited. Wouldn’t have cooked or wrapped presents or… done any of the domestic shit.

He didn’t care if he got sick when he held Marvin at night. Didn’t mind running out to the corner bodega at midnight for extra cough medicine and tissues and ginger ale. Waited on Marvin in spite of his bitching just to nurse him back to health.

And it didn’t make Marvin any less of a man for accepting it—nor did it make Whizzer the “woman” for tending to his every need.

There’s something there to unpack once the last of the sick fog has left his brain. 

“Baby?”

“Hmmm?” Marvin asks, eyes drifting closed as he makes himself comfortable on Whizzer’s chest. “Don’t ask to get up to pee, you’re not going anywhere. I’m comfy.”

Whizzer snorts. “Glad to hear you’d ignore a pressing bodily function,” he says, tugging on Marvin’s hair in retaliation making Marvin let out a soft yelp. “But no, lucky for you I don’t have to get up.”

“So shush. It’s Christmas Day and I’m giving you the gift of sleeping in when not about to die.”

Whizzer tugs on Marvin’s curls again. “And what kid has ever slept past seven in the morning on Christmas Day?”

“Any kid who doesn’t celebrate Christmas. Really, Whizzer, you should know better than to assume everyone follows the same holiday schedule. Don’t you remember my rant a few days ago? Those clients and their assumption that—”

Another tug, harder this time and Marvin’s sure he felt a few strands pull loose. At this rate he’ll be bald by New Year’s Eve. If this is Whizzer’s way of getting back at him for the bald spot comment at Jason’s baseball game, Whizzer doesn’t _actually_ need to make him bald in the process. 

“Except I told Jason what the traditions were in my house. You were probably asleep on the couch for this part. It was after we put up the tree but before we started stringing lights.” Marvin stares at Whizzer as if he’s lost his mind. Which he probably has. “ _Anyway_ ,” Whizzer continues, ignoring his lover, “I explained that it was always a race between me and my sisters to see who could get up the earliest. Whoever did got to open the first present. Since it’s just him, well, I said as soon as he got up to come get us. If he finally gets to celebrate Christmas after all these years, I told the kid he gets the whole experience. Early morning and all.”

“Even if I still felt like shit.”

“Even if. Marvin, Christmas comes but once a year.”

Marvin sits up in bed, the duvet pooling around his bare waist. “So that’s why you actually wore boxers to bed for once.”

Whizzer scowls at Marvin. “Fuck off, you know I always wear something to bed when Jase is here. I’m not _always_ sex-obsessed.”

And that’s a bald-faced lie—and they both know it—but it’s Chrismukkah and Marvin will let Whizzer win this one, too. That’s two in one morning. Has to be some sort of a record. Or maybe it’s just a Christmukkah miracle. 

Still, he leans across Whizzer’s body to glance at the alarm clock on his lover’s side of the bed. “Can’t believe you were willing to get up at o’dark hundred.”

“Did you miss the part where Christmas comes but once a year?” Whizzer replies. “It’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make for our—I mean _your_ son.”

Oh how Marvin wants to point out that this is the first time he’s ever called Jason his son but given Whizzer’s reaction, he decides to let it go. For now.

Marvin squints at the blinking red numbers then kisses Whizzer’s cheek. “Well, clearly Jason didn’t want to get up early since it’s nine-thirty. Your traditions die with a kid who’s allergic to mornings.”

There’s a knock at the door and Marvin shifts away from Whizzer ever so slightly. Just because Jason has caught them in the act several times doesn’t mean he’s wholly comfortable with Jason seeing them in bed together. If it bothers Whizzer, the other man doesn’t say anything, though he does reach for Marvin’s hand—under the covers.

Give him a few more months and Marvin won’t mind so much. Baby steps for the man who is still coming to terms with his sexuality.

“Dad?”

“Come in,” the two men call out in unison.

Marvin quickly kisses Whizzer’s cheek when the man answers to ‘Dad’. If Whizzer keeps this new-found domesticity up, there might be a very important question Marvin will pop by New Year’s.

The door swings open, revealing Jason standing in the doorway, robe askew and looking… well, like shit. He rubs his nose with the back of his sleeve, looking at Marvin with an expression of absolute betrayal.

Marvin can’t help it, he bursts out into laughter.

“If the only Christmas gift I get is your cold, I want a new father,” Jason says, glaring at his dad. “I thought I was supposed to get an xbox or something cool. Not a _cold_.”

“No substitutions, exchanges, or refunds,” Marvin replies with a grin, shifting over in the bed once more to make room for Jason.

The boy crawls into bed with the two men without hesitation and Marvin tousels Jason’s curls—even as Jason coughs right into Whizzer’s face. And if Whizzer gets sick, well—Marvin supposes he’s up for the task of taking care of his lover.

Without the stilettos.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic wouldn't exist if not for my short insomniac (<3) who gives me ideas when my brain can't come up with things, and always gives things a read-through to make sure it isn't crap. Don't know what I'd do without you. <3


End file.
